He hated her, she was well
aware, because of her cold criticism; she returned his hate with
interest.
Save in suicide, of which she had sometimes thought, Mrs. Hannaford
saw but one hope of release. A sister of hers had married a rich
American, and was now a widow in falling health. That sister's death
might perchance endow her with the means of liberty; she hung upon
every message from across the Atlantic.
She had a brother, too; a distinguished, but not a wealthy man. Dr.
Derwent would gladly have seen more of her, gladly have helped to
cheer her life, but a hearty antipathy held him aloof from Lee
Hannaford. Communication between the two families was chiefly
maintained through Dr. Derwent's daughter Irene, now in her
nineteenth year. The girl had visited her aunt at Geneva, and since
then had occasionally been a guest at Ewell. Having just returned
from a winter abroad with her father, and no house being ready for
her reception in London, Irene was even now about to pass a week
with her relatives. They expected her to-day. The prospect of
Irene's arrival enabled Mrs. Hannaford and Olga to find pleasure in
the sunshine, which otherwise brought them little solace.
Neither was in sound health. The mother had an interesting face; the
daughter had a touch of beauty; but something morbid appeared on the
countenance of each. They lived a strange life, lonely, silent; the
stillness of the house unbroken by a note of music, unrelieved by a
sound of laughter.
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